


The Best Taste in the Whole Damn Place

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Midtown
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-21
Updated: 2009-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he sees Gabe Saporta, he's playing Alien Invaders. It should have beena  clue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Taste in the Whole Damn Place

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlovewithnight**](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/), who is entirely to blame. Also, what does it say about me and/or fandom that making sure the food choices in a fic were vegan was harder than making straight boys be sexy with each other? Of course, the value of straight in this = Gabe Saporta, so take that with a grain of salt.

  
Pete sees Gabe for the first time in the arcade down the street from the club. He doesn’t realize who he is until later that night when he’s watching the Midtown set and Gabe comes bounding out in his frayed jeans, Electric Company t-shirt, Tom Baker Dr. Who scarf and a backwards baseball cap. Pete doesn’t remember anything about the show from that point on, doesn’t remember the music. The only thing he can manage to say to Adam after the set is, “Who the fuck is that guy?”

They make their way backstage to where the band is surrounded. At first Pete can’t see anything except a shitload of black, but a flash of color catches his eye and he reaches out instinctively. His hand fists in the soft wool and he tugs. The resistance only lasts a minute, and then Pete’s looking up into a pair of chocolate brown eyes behind a pair of neon orange glasses.

Gabe’s a good foot taller than Pete, he’s skinnier than shit, and the glasses are fake. “I’m Gabe Saporta,” Gabe informs him. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Pete Wentz.”

Gabe looks down at his scarf wrapped around Pete’s hand and then back to Pete’s face. “You do know I don’t really care, right?”

“I’m in a band.” Pete’s not sure why he says it, why he’s even talking to Gabe. There’s just something that Pete wants to be near, something he wants to touch, something polarizing and white hot.

Gabe nods. Pete’s vaguely aware that a lot of the people around them are glaring at him for taking Gabe away from them. He ignores them. It’s hard not to, given that Gabe’s sort of leaning over him. “Yeah. I’m still failing to care.”

“Look, you guys were…okay, I don’t know, because I was watching you, and…”

“Oh.” Gabe laughs and Pete gets caught in his smile. The flash of teeth seems too much and dangerous, and Gabe’s laugh is raw and rough from his set. “This is about fucking. I’m cool with that.”

“Wait. What? No!” Pete knows he’s blushing. “No. It’s not…no.”

“Oh.” Gabe shrugs and Pete can see him losing interest. “Whatever. You want an autograph or something then? Because I’m gonna be famous.” His smile is mocking, but Pete’s pretty sure Gabe’s making fun of himself, not Pete.

“Are you hungry?” Pete flushes even more, aware he’s probably lucky Gabe hasn’t called over a bouncer.

“We’re going to a party.” Gabe’s eyes travel up and down Pete slowly. Pete’s got his hair bleached blond and his black jeans and green hoodie have seen better days, better years. “You could probably come.”

Pete glances at Adam, who’s busy talking to some girl with pink hair, and then back at Gabe. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Cool.” Gabe nods toward the hallway toward the back exit. “Just so long as you realize there’s no chance we’re going to fuck now.”

**

“I want fucking nirvana,” Gabe yells in the vicinity of Pete’s ear from the middle of the crowded dance floor. Lights are swirling and Gabe’s alternating between red and blue and green and orange. Doesn’t remember taking anything, but he feels like he’s flying as Gabe tucks his fingers into Pete’s belt loops to pull him closer.

“Is that like some weird Sting tantric shit?”

“No,” Gabe laughs, throwing his head back and showing his teeth like a fucking shark. “I wanna _be_ Nirvana.”

Pete leans in closer. “Why?”

Gabe moves in as well, practically in Pete’s ear, nose grazing the sensitive skin. “Why the fuck not?”

“Don’t answer questions with questions.”

Gabe laughs again and moves away, grabbing a girl dancing nearby and sliding one of his insanely long legs between both of hers, rocking against her like he’s fucking her. Pete stops dancing – if he’s generous, he calls it dancing – and watches, watches the girl’s face as Gabe whispers something in her ear. She closes her eyes and her fingers grip Gabe’s shoulders tighter, and Pete wonders what the fuck Gabe’s saying.

He also wonders why he cares.

Shaking his head, he slips off the dance floor and goes to the bar, ordering a shot of tequila. He points to the top shelf, and fuck if he can afford it, but he’s partying with fucking _Midtown_ and he’s not about to let something like lack of success get in the way of a good fucking time.

He doesn’t bother with salt or the lime. He learned never to trust fruit in a bar after an incident back in Chicago, so he just slugs back the shot. He looks back out at the dance floor and it’s a sea of bodies in neon and black, glitter and sweat. He sees tons of girls and starts playing a game he made up in clubs he was too young to play in, trying to figure out if he could guess who was going home with whom. It’s no guess that Tyler’s going home with the brunette that’s practically already riding his cock, and Heath’s obviously leaving with one, if not both, of the blondes. He can’t see Rob and Adam’s still with the pink-haired girl.

He doesn’t see Gabe, and he’s pretty fucking hard to miss, so Pete slides off the barstool and sets his glass down, heading around the outskirts of the dance floor. Music is pounding, a mash-up of something good and something horrid made to sound better than either ever started, and the crowd goes wild, jumping and touching and it’s almost like a live show, they’re so into it. Pete has to grin and closes his eyes for a minute, just letting the music wash over him.

 _This._ This is fucking _it_.

Arms slide around his waist from behind and Pete doesn’t resist, just moves back against the solid weight behind him. He leans his head back and can tell he’s against Gabe, even though he’s just met him. No one else fits Pete like this, no one else can. Without thinking, Pete slides his hands up, locking his fingers behind the back of Gabe’s neck. Gabe tightens his grip on one of Pete’s hips and starts moving, his other hand curving around to settle against Pete’s stomach just above his jeans.

Gabe’s singing just above Pete’s head, but he feels it more than hears it as Gabe’s chest rumbles in time to the beat of his heart. Pete is beginning to think he could stay like this forever when Gabe leans down further and nuzzles Pete’s ear.

“Let’s get the fuck gone.”

**

They’re walking the streets of Brooklyn like they fucking own them, strutting like they’re some sort of New York kings. Pure logic makes it obvious that Pete should have to take two steps to every one of Gabe’s but somehow they manage to find a rhythm and set their pace so that they’re moving together. Gabe’s regaling Pete with all sorts of shit from growing up, lapsing into Spanish from time to time.

Pete watches Gabe, trying to figure out what it is that’s so fucking compelling, what it is that makes Pete forget to look away. He can’t put his finger on it, but Gabe seems fearless. He grabs lampposts and swings around on them like he’s fucking Gene Kelly and he sings in waysthat Pete’s never heard, shit in Italian and crap like that, culture mixed with fucked up street lyrics, rapping like he’s fucking JayZ or something.

“Are you like fucking manic or something, dude?”

Gabe’s on top of a dumpster, pounding his chest like he’s King Kong when Pete speaks, and he stops, one hand fisted against his sternum and the other thrown up in the air. “What?”

“I mean, you know there are drugs for that shit, right?”

Gabe laughs, and Pete realizes belatedly that it’s probably good that Gabe’s got a sense of humor or he’d have kicked Pete’s ass by now. As it is, he jumps on the lid of the dumpster then down onto the ground. “Wentzy, if I’m going to do drugs, it’s not going to be to calm the fuck down.”

“Wentzy? What the fuck is that?”

“That’s you, dude.” Gabe throws his arm around Pete’s shoulder and starts walking. “I can’t call you Pete. That’s just an ass name, dude. Pete. Makes you sound like someone’s dick.” Gabe grins toothily and rubs his knuckles against the top of Pete’s head.

“Wentzy makes me sound like a fucking poodle.”

“Hey, chances are if you’re a poodle, you’re housebroken. That’s a step up, right?”

Pete shoves Gabe away and glares at him, though it’s hard. Gabe’s just really fucking _happy_ , grinning like the maniac Pete’s beginning to suspect he is. “You don’t even fucking know me, asshole.”

“Fuck if I don’t.” Gabe unwinds his stupid scarf and tosses it around Pete’s neck, pulling him closer. “I know everything about you, everything important. You love music and you love life and you’re fucked up and you don’t know if you’re supposed to hate it or love it, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s what you are. You don’t have blood, you’ve got rhythm beating in your blood and you don’t care if it’s good, so long as everyone’s having fun.”

Pete wants to argue, but most if it is pretty much spot on. “If you knew me, you’d fucking know I’m housebroken.”

Gabe laughs and throws the scarf across Pete’s throat, looping it lazily over his neck. He jogs off a few steps and glances back at Pete over his shoulder as the unmistakable sound of Gabe’s zipper fills the night. “Then you’re fucking miles ahead of me.”

**

Gabe’s apartment is about the size of Pete’s bedroom back home, as long as you don’t count the closet. His kitchen has a sink and a hotplate, a coffee pot and a refrigerator that sits on the counter. Pete looks inside and sees soy cheese, pixy stix and beer, but at least the beer is the good kind. The living room is the bedroom, the TV against a Chinese-type screen that hides Gabe’s bed. Pete looks over everything – one bookcase overflowing with music of every type and genre and another overflowing with books that range from the fucking _Art of War_ to _Dirty Feet: A Collection of Songs by Shel Silverstein_. It’s a study in contradictions, which fits Gabe a hell of a lot better than the sparse selection of movies underneath the TV. A few horror movies and few action films and a worn looking copy of _Citizen Kane_ all mixed in with a few video games.

Gabe’s behind the screen and he’s talking a mile a minute about absolutely nothing – Pete lost the thread of the conversation about twenty minutes ago, but he’s come to realize it doesn’t matter with Gabe – and then he goes quiet. Pete walks to the edge of the screen and looks in on him. The closet doors are open and Gabe’s clothes are hanging pristine and fucking _ironed_ on their hangers. The floor is spotless and everything is tidy. Pete’s relatively certain there’s a little bit of OCD at work when Gabe opens a drawer and pulls a t-shirt from the stack that’s precisely lined up with the other two, all of them the same fucking size.

“What’d you do? Steal one of those folding boards from The Gap?”

Gabe flips him off and tosses the shirt on his bed, which is really just a mattress and a pile of blankets, comforters and sheets. He peels off the shirt he’s wearing and tosses it at Pete. Pete catches it, the fabric warm from Gabe’s body, smelling like sweat and booze and perfume. “You want to play the X-box?”

“Sure.” Pete tugs his hoodie off and tugs his shirt back down so it meets his waistband. He looks around for a place to toss it, but Gabe’s room is fucking perfect and he’s not about to mess up the lines or some other stupid shit like that. Gabe watches him and then laughs, tugging it from Pete’s hands and throwing it on the bed.

“Don’t be such a prissy little bitch. C’mon.” Gabe’s barefoot, so Pete kicks off his shoes too, padding after him. “Sit down. Get it all set up, would you?” He keeps going into the kitchen, coming back with two beers and a bag of potato chips. He sits down on the floor next to Pete and hands him both of the beers before grabbing the pillows that are shoved up against the wall and stuffing them behind the two of them. Gabe takes one of the beers back and looks Pete over. Pete can feel himself flush, but he just keeps watching Gabe, refusing to look away. “You have a hole in your sock.”

“I know.”

“That’s just fucking unkempt.” Gabe takes a long drink and opens the bag of Cheetos. “Nobody fucking darns their socks anymore.”

“Do you darn your socks?” Pete won’t be surprised no matter what the answer is.

“Fuck no. Do I look like I don’t have anything better to do? I just buy me some new ones.” Gabe crunches a Cheeto between his teeth, neon orange matter spattering everywhere. “Turn the game on. Time for me to school yo ass.”

Pete rolls his eyes and starts the game. “You don’t have any friends, do you? That’s why you kidnap people and bring them home and make them play games with you.”

“You’re not my friend?” Gabe slides his lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Now you’re just hurting my feelings, Wentzy.”

“Stop _calling me that_.”

“Dude. Dude.” Gabe takes another handful of Cheetos and shoves three in his mouth, talking through them. “No need to get hostile.”

“You’re not human, are you? You’re like a science experiment gone horribly wrong.” Pete turns his focus to the video game, blowing shit up with a vengeance, pretending it’s Gabe. “Frankenstein’s fucking monster.”

“You could just be really insulting and assume that Argentina and Uruguay are the same and suggest I’m a product of escaped Nazis.”

“I’m rude, not insulting.” Pete informs him. “Also, I know geography, fucker.”

“Yeah. Whatever, homes.” Gabe shifts back against the pillows, sprawling out on the floor. The room seems barely big enough to contain all six-plus feet of him, but he manages, tapping his foot to the rhythm he’s humming as he shoots the crap out of invading aliens. Pete tries to ignore the music, but his foot starts tapping out the counter rhythm and he can see Gabe’s smile out the corner of his eye. “Capital of Kyrgyzstan.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Dude, you brought on the challenge.” Gabe shoots and blows open the back of Pete’s head. “Whoops.”

“You _fuck_!” Pete jabs Gabe with his elbow. “Just for that.” Pete turns his character around and starts firing on Gabe’s. Gabe starts laughing, lobbing a grenade at Pete’s character while the hordes of aliens charge up around them. Their characters end up back to back finally, both of them concentrating on blowing the aliens the fuck away. They sit up for better focus, arms pressed against each other and their conversation muted to the occasional muttered ‘oh, no the fuck you don’t’ and ‘fucking green headed zombie alien motherfucker’ until they both end up bleeding out, tentacles and fragments of buildings and dirt and alien raining down on them.

“Fuck yeah.” Gabe sucks down a mouthful of beer.

“Bishkek.”

Gabe snorts and grabs his nose, swallowing hard. He groans as he tilts his head back. “That fucking _hurt_.”

“Don’t ask a question if you can’t handle the answer.” Pete takes his own drink of beer and follows it up with a handful of Cheetos. He wipes the orange mess across his thigh and then sucks his fingers clean. “Besides, that’s a fucked up question. Who _doesn’t_ know the answer to that?”

Gabe grabs a Cheeto and throws it at Pete, smacking him in the middle of the forehead. Pete opens his mouth in surprise then picks up the offending food and tosses it right back, hitting Gabe square in the chest. Gabe’s eyebrows go up and his eyes widen and the next thing Pete knows, they’re in the middle of a food fight, Cheetos flying around the living room. He’s reaching in the bag for more when Gabe catches his wrist and forces Pete down onto his back on the floor. Gabe straddles him, fingers tight enough to bruise, and Pete knows he’s going to have marks for sure in the morning.

Pete stares up at Gabe and the heat of the room changes. He feels different. He can feel every drop of perspiration on his skin, can feel the way Gabe shifts his weight as he leans forward. Gabe’s eyes are dancing, bright as the fucking North Star and Pete’s pretty sure he could get lost in them for days, lost in all the shit that’s churning around in Gabe’s brain. “Hey.”

Gabe’s mouth curves into the hint of a smile and then his fingers skate along the bare skin between Pete’s shirt where it’s ridden up and the waistband of his jeans. “Hey.”

Pete licks his lips and tries to look away, never getting very far. Gabe’s pretty fucking mesmerizing. “I thought you said I missed my chance for this.”

“I said you missed your chance for sex.” Gabe’s voice is a low, hot purr as he unbuttons Pete’s jeans. “Not for this.”

“But…” Pete stops as Gabe shifts suddenly and shoves a handful of Cheetos down Pete’s pants, half of them getting beneath his underwear and half crushed between the cotton and his jeans. “Oh. _Fuck_ , Saporta.”

Gabe gets to his feet far more easily and gracefully than he should, given that he’s a hundred feet tall. Pete’s too busy glaring at him and trying to keep Cheetos from getting down to his balls. “You can sleep on the couch, Wentzy.”

“You don’t _have_ a couch!”

“Oh. Yeah. Whoops.” Gabe ducks behind the screen and pokes his head out, smiling like a fucking maniac. “Night!”

**

Pete wakes up the next morning with Gabe lifting up the waistband of his shorts, staring down at Pete’s dark hair and morning wood. “Dude. What the _fuck_?”

“You don’t have a steady girlfriend, do you? Because I don’t want to know _how_ you’re going to explain your orange dick.” He releases Pete’s shorts and the elastic snaps hard on Pete’s stomach. “Though, I will say, starting it with ‘Gabe Saporta put his hand down my pants’ will probably clear most things up. And anything else, you go after with antibiotics.”

“Maybe you could stay out of my pants.” Pete gets off the floor, groaning a little.

“That’s not what you wanted last night.” Gabe’s grinning still. “You want bagels?”

“I want a shower.”

“Over there.” Gabe nods toward a door Pete hadn’t noticed. “The water knobs are reversed and the toilet handle sticks sometimes.”

“You live in squalor.”

“I live like a rock and roll _stah_.” Gabe goes into the kitchen and Pete watches him, the way his skinny ass moves under his Calvin Klein boxer-briefs. “Don’t you go thinking it’s all sex, drugs and STDs, dude. It’s all about the living in the lap of luxury. Oh, and there might be a rat in there, but don’t worry. I think he’s rabies free.”

“You’ve probably fucking named him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. His names Juarez. He likes the chicken dance, the Yankees, toe jam and lingonberries. Don’t give him chocolate.”

“You’re certifiable, aren’t you? You’re like on work release or something.” Pete shuts the bathroom door, even though he’s relatively certain that even a lock wouldn’t keep Gabe out if he wanted in. “You have some sort of electronic device on your ankle to monitor you.” He raises his voice as he shucks out of his clothes, unable to keep from glancing around for any visitors of the vermin persuasion as he takes his piss. “You’re supposed to stay away from flammable objects and small children.”

“Have you been reading my diary?” Gabe calls out.

“Is there heavy medication in here that you haven’t been taking?” Pete turns on the shower and waits for it to heat up, listening to the wrench and gurgle of old pipes. This is miles away from home in Chicago, but he’s halfway in love with Gabe’s apartment, Gabe’s life. He wonders briefly where Adam ended up, but then he gets in the shower and groans, letting the hot, hot water wash everything out of his head.

When he gets out of the shower, there are fresh towels on the corner of the sink and a pair of board shorts and a t-shirt. There’s also a clean pair of underwear still in a three-pack package and a new pair of socks. He smiles and scrubs a hand through his still damp hair. He gets dried off and dressed, and hangs the towels on the bar next to the shower. When he comes out, Gabe’s sitting on the window ledge, drinking coffee and eating a bagel.

“There’s food,” Gabe jerks his head toward the kitchen.

Pete goes into the kitchen and looks in the cupboards. There are two cups, five plates and the silverware drawer has two knives, a fork and seventeen spoons. There are also twelve different kinds of cereal, even though Pete knows Gabe’s got no milk. Pete grabs a box down and opens it, inhaling the sugar-sweet smell of Trix. “Don’t you know these are for kids?”

Gabe smiles around his coffee cup. “And you actually have some evidence substantiating that I’m some sort of adult?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Pete sits on the floor, bunching up the pillows behind him. “You guys have another show tonight.”

“Yeah.” Gabe sucks crumbs from his thumb, watching Pete closely. After a moment, he sets his coffee cup on the ledge and gets down on his knees in front of Pete. Pete doesn’t move away, just sits there eating the Trix dry, one colored pellet at a time. “You and me, Wentz.”

“Yeah?” Pete’s voice sounds funny to his ears, but he can’t help it. Something about Gabe being too close gets to him, and it’s not just the physical closeness. _That_ he thinks he can deal with.

“We’re gonna be friends.”

“Okay.” Pete nods, not surprised by the declaration other than the fact that Gabe felt compelled to make it. “One day we’re going to rule the world of rock and roll.”

“Sure.” Gabe grins. “You can be the Tsar and I’ll be your Rasputin.”

“That means we both die weird or unnatural deaths.”

“And that I have an enormous cock.” Gabe reaches down and hefts his junk. “Which is a pretty awesome historical legacy to leave, huh?”

“You’re a sick man.”

“Yeah.” Gabe watches Pete for a moment longer then leans in. His hand curls around the box of Trix and he moves it out of the way, crawling forward as Pete leans back. Pete swallows hard, the dry cereal sticking a little in his throat, as Gabe stops, braced directly above him. Pete’s lips part as Gabe’s tongue slides out, the tip tracing his own bottom lip. “What’re you doing?”

Gabe shakes his head and Pete stops talking. His eyes go to Gabe’s mouth and his smile, dangerous and sharp for a moment until it fades into something wistful and not quite real, or maybe realer than anything Gabe’s shown him so far. “I’m gonna kiss you, Wentz.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why not?”

Pete blows out a rough sigh, shifting his body so that Gabe fits between his legs as he lowers himself down onto Pete. “Don’t answer a question with a question.”

“Okay,” Gabe whispers, lips barely brushing Pete’s. “How about I answer you with this?”

Pete opens his mouth to Gabe’s kiss, but not before he reminds him that that’s a question too.  



End file.
